


Willingly Given

by schweet_heart



Series: Merlin Fic [136]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Anal Sex, Angst, Arthur Knows About Merlin's Magic, BAMF Merlin, Bottom Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Canon Era, Established Relationship, Friends With Benefits, Fuckbuddies, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Mutual Pining, Oblivious Arthur Pendragon, Oblivious Merlin, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Protective Merlin, Self-Sacrifice, Sex Magic, Ultimate Sacrifice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-19
Updated: 2018-07-19
Packaged: 2019-06-12 17:24:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15344778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/schweet_heart/pseuds/schweet_heart
Summary: All the magic in the world can’t help him now; there’s nothing that will convince the Sidhe to withdraw their ultimatum, and Arthur can feel the certainty of it in the way Merlin clings to him with his hands, his mouth, pressing their foreheads together and never lifting his gaze from Arthur’s face as Arthur moves above him.Written for CD Prompt #322: Pity. Cope. Bleed.





	Willingly Given

 

Night falls slowly at midsummer. Arthur leaves the feast table early, unable to bear Morgana’s pity or the sadness in his father’s eyes any longer, and makes his way through the half-dark corridors alone until he reaches his chambers. He hesitates for a moment at the door, hand lingering on the rough grain, then pushes it open.  
  
“You weren’t at the feast,” he says.  
  
“Couldn’t face it.” Merlin is sitting on the bed, head bent, his elbows resting on his knees. There’s a pile of fresh laundry on the floor beside him—superfluous, now. He doesn’t look up when Arthur walks in. “You—You’re going to _die_ tomorrow, and they’re just—”  
  
“It’s how they cope,” Arthur says. He peels off his jacket and tosses it on a chair, unlaces his boots. When he stands in front of Merlin he is bare-footed, his shirt-laces loose and open at the neck, and he feels strangely untethered. “They’re not— _celebrating_. They’re just trying to pretend everything is normal.”  
  
“There’s nothing _normal_ about this,” Merlin says vehemently. “Arthur, I—”  
  
“Hush.” Arthur cups his face, hears Merlin stop on an indrawn breath. “Not tonight. Panic tomorrow if you must, but tonight I need you to—I just want—”  
  
Merlin breathes out. “Okay.” His mouth when Arthur kisses him tastes damply of salt, opening wet and hungry against his own. “Okay,” he repeats. His fingers are knotted in Arthur’s hair. “Whatever you need.”  
  
They’ve only done this a handful of times before, and never sober. Arthur has been thinking about it all night, about how Merlin would taste, how it would feel, whether it would be fair to ask this of him when they both know it can never go anywhere. “Take off your clothes,” he whispers. Merlin shudders as he obeys, adding them to the laundry pile with a fastidiousness that would have made Arthur laugh if it weren’t so sad. He removes his own things silently. Maybe it should feel strange to be doing this for himself for once, but tonight is not about servants or protocol, or even the obeisance due to a prince about to sacrifice himself for his kingdom; tonight, it’s about the two of them—maybe for the last time.  
  
“Kiss me,” Merlin says. Arthur obliges, curling his tongue inside Merlin’s mouth, letting his hands run up and down the pebbled skin of his chest. He can feel the hitch in Merlin’s breath. “ _Arthur_.”  
  
“Merlin,” Arthur murmurs back. He pushes Merlin down against the bedclothes, holding his wrists, feeling the frantically beating pulse beneath the heels of his hands. “Would you mind…?”  
  
Merlin nods, and Arthur straddles him, climbing onto the bed. He lets go. Merlin’s palms slide flat over the planes of his back, his fingers pressing divots into muscles and skin, and Arthur hears him mutter the words that will help to ease the way, feels the sudden slickness between his thighs as Merlin prepares him. He’s already hard, his cock leaking onto Merlin’s stomach, but he almost doesn’t notice, the desire for release subsumed by the need to feel Merlin inside him, filling him, to hold onto him tightly and know that he isn’t alone.  
  
“Move back,” Merlin says when he’s done, and Arthur reaches around to line himself up, letting out a small hiss as the blunt tip of Merlin’s cock-head pushes past his rim.  
  
They don’t talk about the magic, ever. At first it was because Arthur had been angry, and then because there was nothing more to say; Arthur knows Merlin is never going to stop protecting him, just as Merlin knows Arthur will never give up his secret, could never make the decision to watch him burn. He works his way onto Merlin’s cock with shallow little thrusts of his hips, and Merlin gathers him close, hooking his arms around Arthur’s neck so that they’re half-hugging, half-kissing, Merlin’s lips hot and sweet against his own. All the magic in the world can’t help him now; there’s nothing that will convince the Sidhe to withdraw their ultimatum, and Arthur can feel the certainty of it in the way Merlin clings to him with his hands, his mouth, pressing their foreheads together and never lifting his gaze from Arthur’s face as Arthur moves above him.  
  
It’s too much; Arthur’s hips stutter and he forgets to breathe, bracing himself on the mattress with arms that tremble and threaten to collapse. Merlin strokes his hair, his cheeks, and Arthur’s eyes close of their own accord, the better to trap the tears that have begun to burn behind them.  
  
“It’s okay,” Merlin whispers, pressing kisses to his throat. “It’s okay. I won’t let anything happen to you.”  
  
Arthur knows that it's a lie. He knows it even as he comes, pulling Merlin over the precipice with him, but in the end it hardly matters—it’s already far too late to pretend he has a choice.  
  
Merlin takes care of the clean-up and then Arthur bundles them both under the sheets, tucking his face into Merlin’s neck as if this isn’t the first time they’ve really, properly shared a bed. Merlin goes willingly enough, tangling their feet together beneath the blankets, and he seems to understand how much Arthur is trusting to him because he doesn’t even complain about the weight across his chest. He smells of familiar things, of saddle-soap and lilacs and rust, and Arthur thinks for a moment that if Merlin asked him to stay then he would do it, regardless of the consequences, so it’s just as well that Merlin never will.  
  
He doesn’t mean to sleep, but as the deep blue sky begins to lighten and bleed into grey his eyelids close, and he dreams of Merlin’s kisses, of water falling gently on his face as in a light rain; of the way Merlin had said _anything_ so fiercely and had met Arthur’s searching gaze with his own like he couldn’t look away.  
  
When he wakes up the next morning, Merlin is already gone.


End file.
